Lynda La Plante: Royal Heist

“Will the Queen be with her horse?” he asked like a kid.

“Yes, I believe so. She has a runner in the same race.”

“Bloody hell, I wouldn’t miss that. We’ll go over to the stands then after the next race. Which way do we go?” After giving him directions, Christina signaled to the girls, and the five of them left the box.

They passed under the archway and headed along the grass path toward the arena, where the horses would be brought to their owners and trainers. There, the jockeys received their last-minute instructions before mounting to ride down the track to the starting gate. Dense crowds lined the fenced walkway to watch the Queen as she, too, made her way toward the parade ring.

De Jersey arrived at the stables as the horses were being walked outside. They were unsaddled but draped in their owners’ colors, and their numbers were attached to their bridles. The sun blazed, and some were already sweating. Royal Flush was number seven. He was playing up, tossing his head. A couple of other horses walked sideways; some were kicking out. Her Majesty’s trainer walked with her to the ring, surrounded by bodyguards and security officers, six feet in front and behind. Although they had walkie-talkies and were monitoring the crowds, they were discreet, and there was a wonderful atmosphere of well-being. Here at Royal Ascot the Queen could relax and enjoy her favorite pastime. She acknowledged the cheers but was deeply engrossed in talking to her trainer.

Quite a way behind, Christina was strolling with the girls, who were agog at such glamour. They excitedly spotted stars of movies and television and kept taking secret glances ahead to the Queen’s party.

Royal Flush was still acting up as he was led into a stable. Fleming and de Jersey saddled him. De Jersey dipped a sponge into a bucket and squeezed water into the horse’s mouth past the bit, talking to him all the time, but the horse was increasingly hard to control. Finally, the saddle was on and he was led out, rearing and bucking, ears flattened. De Jersey looked on, concerned.

“He’s in a right mood,” muttered Fleming.

“It’s bloody hot for him.”

As the stable lad took the reins, de Jersey tapped his shoulder. “See you in the ring.”

“Yes, sir. He’ll calm down. He’s just desperate to get onto that track.”

De Jersey straightened his gray silk cravat and replaced his topper. “Let’s go.” Then he and Fleming walked side by side toward the parade ring.

At the center the crowds pressed against the railings, and the green was full of owners and trainers. The Sheikh was waiting for his runner to appear, and de Jersey could see Christina and the girls chatting to friends. Making his way toward them, he passed the Queen and tipped his top hat. He was astonished when she acknowledged him. He had seen her on several occasions, but never before had she spoken to him.

“Do you play cards, Mr. de Jersey?” the Queen asked, smiling.

“Infrequently, ma’am.” He bowed.

“I wondered how your horse came about his name.”

De Jersey flushed to the roots of his hair; the royal flush was an unbeatable poker hand. “Whether it will prove to be his rightful name remains to be seen, ma’am.”

The Queen inclined her head; the conversation was over.

His heart pounding, de Jersey replaced his top hat and continued to cross the green. He could hardly believe that Her Majesty had known his name and stopped a moment to get his breath.

“You all right?” Fleming asked.

“I’m fine, just… She knew who I was, Donald!”

Fleming laughed. “She doesn’t miss a trick. She’s got a stable of horses on a par with yours, and I bet she knows just what the competition is from our boy. That’s her horse being led into the ring now.” He gestured to a magnificent bay draped in the Royal colors, bigger than Royal Flush, and calmer. Royal Flush, a deep, almost burnt chestnut, still tossed his head, and there was a white film of sweat on his neck.

“Bloody hot for his second time out,” de Jersey said. Then he greeted Christina by slipping an arm around her waist, and they watched as his lad walked Royal Flush round the ring.

Mickey Rowland adjusted his chin strap, whip under his arm, and looked around. Spotting de Jersey, he came over. “Hot out here,” he murmured, nodding to Christina.

“You’ve met my daughters, and these two young ladies are-” De Jersey suddenly saw that Leonie was about to take a photograph. “Not now,” he snapped.

“But, Daddy-”

“No! Christina, take the camera off her now !”

Leonie looked frightened and lowered it. Christina took the camera, explaining, “It’s supposed to be unlucky, sweetheart. Take as many as you like after the race.”

De Jersey, Fleming, and Mickey were deep in conversation, the incident forgotten. “I think it’s best to give him his head. With this ground it’s going to be fast. Let’s see what he can do, maybe give him a tap halfway, keep him off the rails, center of the course. It’s already been churned up, so if it’s too rough move him across.”

Mickey’s face was expressionless. He and de Jersey walked toward Royal Flush. De Jersey bent low, speaking privately: “You know him best, Mickey. Do what you have to do. Let’s see how good he is.”

Mickey smiled. “See you in the winner’s enclosure, then, shall I?”

De Jersey laughed and gave his jockey a leg up. Mickey tightened his gloves, tapped his helmet with his whip, and urged Royal Flush to walk out of the ring. The crowd headed back for the stands to watch the race. The horses would take a good, easy canter to the starting gate.

De Jersey walked ahead toward the owners’ and trainers’ stand, leaving Fleming to guide Christina and the girls. He didn’t see David and Helen Lyons waving from behind the barrier, but they had seen him pause by the Queen; David had the photograph to prove it.

Christina fanned herself with her race card as they headed up the steps to the front row of the stand. They were all very hot. She knew not to speak to her husband as he trained his binoculars on Royal Flush cantering up to the starting gate. De Jersey lifted them, lowered them, looked to the wide screen, then went back to the binoculars. Fleming was more relaxed.

“He’ll start his shuffle in a minute,” he whispered to Christina. Whenever de Jersey watched one of his horses race, he would shift from one foot to the other as if he were standing on hot coals. They exchanged smiles.

Now the commentator was saying that all the horses were in the gates except Royal Flush. Then he was in, and the next second they were off. Fleming stood close by de Jersey, who muttered, “Came out well, but he’s boxed in. Move him up, Mickey, that’s it-good, he’s in a nice position.”

As Christina squinted at the screen, Natalie asked where Royal Flush was.

“I think he’s fourth, no fifth-he’s right in the center. See the star on Mickey’s cap?”

De Jersey yelped, and everyone turned to look. He was hopping up and down. “He’s dropped back! What the hell is he doing?” His face was like thunder. “Come on, come on, Mickey! Ride him. That’s it! That’s it. ” He nudged Fleming so hard that he was almost knocked off his feet. “He’s moving up, sitting in a lovely position, see him?”

But the Queen’s bay was breaking away from the pack. He was almost a length in front of the rest of the field.

De Jersey lowered the binoculars as the horses thundered down the backstretch. Royal Flush was still in fourth but looked as if he was tiring. Boxed in on both sides, he was struggling to hold his position. Then, suddenly, he began to draw ahead of the horses, neck and neck on either side of him.